


Materia Bright

by sister_coyote



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Action/Adventure, Casual Sex, Community: het_challenge, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Missionfic, Plot What Plot, Public Sex, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-15
Updated: 2007-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Rude.  They don't have to talk about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Materia Bright

Elena realizes that the job's gone bad when she sees her hosts—'hosts'—moving in along the walls of the restaurant with more speed and determination than is really seemly.

She doesn't take her eyes off the paper, though, not even to look at Rude when she hisses, "Move."

She's delighted that he doesn't question her.

Rude's on his feet and moving _toward_ them, which seems to confuse the man in the lead. He says something—she can't catch what, because she's sliding her hand into her pocket, through the slit at the bottom, to the hidden holster strapped above her knee. Then her gun's in her hand, and she's thumbing off the safety and drawing it up, under the table.

Rude executes a beautiful two-blow maneuver so fast and smooth it might as well be one motion: driving his fist into the man's gut, and then, when he doubles over, smashing the heel of the same hand into his nose. From the other target, Elena sees the flare-flash of materia and fires—not at him, there's too much chance of hitting Rude, but up, into the globe light hanging above their table. It explodes in a shower of glass and sparks, and that's when the restaurant's patrons really notice that something's up and start to scream. In the confusion, the spellcaster loses concentration and the materia-flare dies down.

It's been no more than three seconds, start to finish.

She follows Rude out of the restaurant and into the alley, gun still warm in her hand. Rude didn't look back to see that she was there, instead rubbing his fingertips over the beads of materia in the wristband of his gloves. A nervous tic, much like her tendency to pop her knives in and out. "What gave us away?" she said.

"Dunno." Rude corners into an alley and slams his back against the wall. "Maybe they had a tipoff."

"Maybe it was your sunglasses."

He gives her a baleful look.

They aren't far behind. There are four of them: two packing semi-automatics, one with a bracer full of materia, and the one Rude messed up, bleeding heavily from his smashed nose. "Damn," Rude says, and doesn't elaborate, but Elena can interpret that just fine. Usually when he hits someone, they go down and stay down. This one's either tougher than reinforced concrete—or he's packing potions or Heal or both. Which complicates things. They both like it better when someone they drop stays that way.

"What've you got?" Rude asks.

"Earth. Mystify."

He grunts. He has Fire, Cover, and Heal, she knows that much—he always does, he's as predictable in his way as Reno, although Reno goes for the really flashy materia—and he knows better than to cast Protect on her until she's either exposed or down and really needs it. "Cover me," he says, and sidles along the wall—surprisingly silent and agile for someone so large.

She brushes Mystify and bright materia-light flares up around the butt of her gun and her hands, illuminating her in the dimness. All four of her enemies turn toward her like moths to a flame, and she knows she has a few seconds to hold them off before the Confuse effect takes hold (assuming it works on all of them, which it probably won't). She fires once, twice, three times—hits one of them and sends him down; the other two shots ping off the street. Then Rude's behind them and she doesn't dare fire again for fear of hitting him, but that's was mostly okay because Confuse has started to take hold, judging by the way two of them are glassing over. The third, unfortunately, is the one with the full materia bracer.

She smells the ozone tang on the air soon enough for some warning, and dodges left just before the lightning spell hits, skidding to one knee—but not quite fast enough. Her left arm (thank god, the left, not her gun arm) tingles and twitches and then the shock passes, leaving that arm as good as dead and slightly charred but fortunately devoid of sensation. Still kneeling, she brings her gun up toward the blaze of light that means he's was readying another spell—but through the light she can't see Rude, doesn't dare shoot.

Then there's was the sound of a scuffle, and the heavy thud of fists on flesh. The materia-light dies. The materia-bearer is down flat, and Rude cuffs the two confused men at the napes of their necks, neatly dropping them as well.

"Not quite according to plan," she says, grinning, though her grin fades a little when she sees that his ear is badly torn and bleeding. "Damn. You all right?"

Rude shrugs. "Been worse. Caught my earring, that's all."

"What you get for wearing so much hardware," Elena says. She crossed toward him, stepping over the bodies—then pauses, kneels, and comes up with a potion lifted from one of them. "Here."

Unlike Reno—or, to be honest, herself—Rude doesn't feel the need to stand on machismo. He takes the potion, cracks the seal, and knocks it back. Then, without asking, he touches the materia at his wrist, and the numbness in her arm fades, bringing her skin back to itchy, tingling life.

"Thank you," she says. He shrugs. They make it to the alley before she catches his lapels and kisses him.

It's like this for all of them. There's something about the fighting that turns a girl on—and it's one of the unspoken rules of the Turks, the inverse of normal company rules: you don't fuck around outside the group, there's too much to lose and too much to risk. It's all no-strings-attached and no-questions-asked and she's glad of that, and it's especially easy from Rude, because the silence doesn't feel like it means anything. He's always so quiet.

Rude picks her up like she weighs nothing—his hands are big on her thighs, still in their gloves, smooth leather against the tensed muscles of her legs. For a moment she feels the spike of panic in her stomach—she's strong for her size but the thing is, so is he—but then he leans down and kisses her, his goatee rough on her chin, and she pushes the nerves down to kiss him back. She presses her tongue into his mouth and tastes sweat on his lips, the echo of scotch on his breath; hooks an arm around the back of his neck to pull him down for more, because even when he's holding her up like this she has to reach up to kiss him. Her back hits the brick wall, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to give her leverage as she braces her shoulders and rubs herself against him. Feels his cock, thick, and it feels like he's radiating heat even through all their clothes—or maybe that's just her.

She nearly wraps her legs around his waist, but then remembers her pants. She jerks her hand free of his neck and unhooks her pants, kicks them off one leg at a time. Rude doesn't help her except to support her weight, letting her wriggle against his hands until her pants are down, hanging from one foot and then kicked off, and her panties with them. She unbuttons his fly and pulls it open, just enough to tug him free—and yes, he is big, no illusion there, and hot in her hand, and—oh, gorgeous, pierced. She makes a little pleased sound and looks up (up, he's so much bigger than her, and that's almost-scary and also extremely exciting in a way she doesn't want to examine too closely).

"Like it?" he asks.

"Trying to get me to flatter your ego?" She strokes him hard for emphasis, the pad of her thumb running around his head, toying with the barbell.

"Just making conversation. I know I like what I see," he says, and she feels his hand turn a little on the inside of her thigh, still holding her up but also running his index finger along her folds until she hisses. His fingers in the leather of the gloves are not ungentle and yet press her open, push her open, almost enough to be uncomfortable —

She doesn't want it comfortable, she doesn't want it easy, she wants it to hurt a little because hurting means you're alive. "What're you waiting for?" she demands. "This isn't the place to go slow."

"If you insist," Rude says, and lines the head of his cock up—for a moment she can feel the warmed metal of his piercing against her clit, and her eyelids flutter and her cunt tightens despite herself—and then he pushes in, not slowly, working her open, stretching her out—bigger than she's used to, and even though she's wet for a moment it burns, the stretch, too much.

She rocks her head back, braces her hands on his shoulders and her shoulders against the wall, and pushes _down_, getting him all the way inside, all the way, almost but not quite too much to feel good. But it does feel good, an ache that burns up her muscles from where she's tight around him all the way up to the top of her head, her fingers tingling, her teeth rattling as she clenches her jaw and hisses, "Yes," between her teeth.

Rude's fingers slip on her thighs, her skin sweaty now, before he gets a good grip and a good pace and she doesn't have to ask him to speed up again. Her eyes close, open; looking up at him she can see herself reflected in his sunglasses, and though she wonders if maybe she should have had him take them off—well, without the sunglasses, it wouldn't feel like she was really fucking _Rude_. She can see her own expression, her eyes slitted, her cheeks flushed, her hair sticking to her face. After a moment he glances down, leans back a little, and she follows his gaze down to where he's pressing into her—breathtaking, so big inside her, and seeing it as well as feeling it makes her keen and speed up, moving against the pressure of his hands, fucking herself to a new rhythm that won't last long, and doesn't. She feels the first tickling clench of her muscles, prelude to orgasm, and then again, an irregular canter of muscles faster and faster until she comes, bracing a foot against the wall to push against him at the same time she arches toward him, biting her own hand to muffle the sounds she's making.

He fucks her a bit longer, steadily, as if to prove he can, before he comes, too, shuddering into her. After a few ragged-breath moments he drags his cock out of her—still half-hard, slick—and eases her to her feet.

He gives her a moment to retrieve her pants, and it's—are they going to talk about it? But no, this is Rude, they don't have to talk about it, and she's grateful.


End file.
